All You Have Is Your Word
by SierraSilver
Summary: "I don't know who I am anymore," she chokes. "I used to be someone, I used to make decisions and know what I thought about things, and then somewhere along the line I wasn't someone anymore. Somewhere along the line I stopped existing without you." (A Blue Bird AU. Because sometimes it's not as easy as just getting off a plane and saying you feel the same way.)
1. I

A/N: This is a Blue Bird AU. I know there have been quite a lot of Blue Bird AUs, but as the old saying goes—'if you can't have a redbird, a bluebird [AU] will do'. Or something like that. I wrote it because I thought Lisbon's emotions about leaving/staying should have been a bit more complex than what we saw in the episode. Be warned that this means most of this will be pretty dark.

I'm running a risk here because I haven't finished all of this. There are eight installments and I'm completely done the first half, but still filling in some scenes on the second (I write everything wildly out of order). Barring unforeseen circumstances though, I hope to have all of it up in the next few weeks.

Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>The first thing she does when she gets back to her hotel room is take off that goddamn dress and put on regular clothes. All she can think for about a minute is that she shouldn't have thrown a glass of water in his face—she should've punched him. Something that would've hurt. Something to get rid of this feeling that she's trapped in a soap opera, that she's stuck in one of those stupid love triangles where both choices are the wrong one.<p>

She blames misdialing the taxi company's number and her shaking hands on anger. On her second try, the operator tells her it'll take twenty minutes for a cab to arrive. She has to pack the few things she's brought, has to—

"Lisbon?" His voice in the hallway. "I need to talk to you, could you please—"

"Leave me alone_._" She could open the door, she could open the door right now and punch him like she should have before—but she doesn't want to even see his face.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tricked you, but I—"

"There's no excuse, Jane. There's no reason or excuse or lie you can get me to believe right now." She wishes that were true. "All you do, all you've _ever_ done, is use me. I used to think it was just to catch Red John, but I don't know what the _hell_ you're getting out of it now."

"I just…I needed a chance to talk to you, Lisbon."

"You've had _months _to talk to me," she snaps. "I thought when you made me move here that you were actually going to try to fix things, try to act like a decent human being. You wrote all those stupid letters to make me think you'd changed, and then once I was your sidekick again you went _right back_ to how you'd always been."

"I know that." His voice is wavering as though he's about to cry (but she won't believe it). "I know that and I'm sorry. I should have said something to you before."

"Said something before about _what?_" Why isn't she telling him to go away? "You're so twisted up in secrets that you can't even talk to me about anything real. I've been waiting for _years _for you to talk to me about something, _anything _that matters_, _and all you ever do is run away."

"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I'm…" he trails off. "This has been…terrifying for me, and I thought that if I just had more time, I could…"

"You could _what_, Jane?"

A pause. "Could you please open the door?"

She's going to punch him. She's going to punch him in the face.

Her hands are still shaking as she takes the handle and pulls the door open to see him. "What the hell do you want from—?"

"I love you."

He's staring right at her with reddened eyes and this isn't happening—she's dreaming it, or maybe hallucinating it, or something else—but it isn't happening and it isn't real.

"What?" Her voice cracks.

"I love you," he says again. "And I needed to say that, and I didn't want to trick you again but I didn't know how else to get more time. So I'm telling you now that I love you."

She feels like her clothing is made of lead, like her necklace is strangling her even though she knows it isn't.

"No," she chokes. "I don't believe you. I wanted to believe you when you said that the first time, and then you pretended it hadn't even—"

"I meant it then, too," he interrupts. "I meant it and the only reason I pretended to have forgotten was that I thought he would find out and I thought I would lose you too."

"Red John's been dead for _years _now, Jane. You can't use that as an excuse. You _can't_." She wants to wipe the tears away from her eyes, but it'll just call attention to the fact that she's crying. (How many times has he made her cry these past few weeks? How many times has he made her cry since the day he walked into the CBI?)

"You're right. You're right and I should have told you sooner." He takes a breath. "But I didn't, so I have to say it now. I want you to be safe and I want you to be happy because you deserve that more than anyone. I love you and I hope that you can believe that, because it's the truth."

"It's too late," she says. "You can't—"

"I know. I know that. But I needed to tell you anyway. I needed to tell you and now I have."

"Go away." And it isn't what she means but if he says it again she's going to fall apart, she's going to collapse right here. "Just go away, Jane. Just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

"Okay." He gives her a broken smile and nods. "Okay. I love you, Teresa."

She slams the door and the next five minutes are a blank.

* * *

><p>In the backseat of the taxi she keeps whispering 'it's too late' under her breath like a mantra, rubbing at her eyes until she isn't crying anymore. The driver glances at her a couple times in the rearview mirror before turning up the volume on a Latin pop station.<p>

She takes out her phone to call Marcus, but her fingers won't dial anything. She can't talk to him when she's still hearing Jane's voice in her head.

Five times. He said 'I love you' five damn times, and she—

It's too late. It's way too late.

* * *

><p>Once arrived, she stares at the departures board for a good long while. It's an international airport, so she could get a flight to Nassau or Santo Domingo or Caracas if she wanted (though she doesn't have her passport with her, so maybe not). She glances out of reflex over the information for Austin before finding what she should be looking for. If she were going to go to D.C., she thinks, she would buy a ticket for Dulles or Reagan National. She might call Marcus first and ask him which would be more convenient for him, since she doesn't have a car there.<p>

There are a few free seats on the flight she wants, it turns out.

"Going home?" the man behind the row of kiosks asks.

"Sort of," she tells him. "I think so."

* * *

><p>Her flight doesn't leave for a few hours, so she walks past the crowds of tourists speaking twenty different languages and the infinite line of fast-food restaurants that each promise the quickest service in the airport. She won't cry in front of all of these strangers. Maybe she can do this without crying at all.<p>

She skirts a 'closed for renovations' sign and walks down a long hallway to a terminal cluttered with paint cans and scaffolding but clear of people. There's row upon row of empty chairs at each of the gates, but she sinks to the floor in the corner of the room, back against the wall.

She stares at the plane ticket for a few minutes, reading every sequence of letters and digits several times each as though expecting them to change. When she finally takes out her phone and dials the number, she still has no idea what she's going to say.

She could still tell him that the case was fake, that she'll be coming in a day or so once the paperwork goes through. She could still tell him that she will marry him after all.

"Teresa," he greets. "How's your case? You guys finish yet?"

She goes to speak but her throat closes and her eyes burn and all that comes out is a choked sob.

"Hey, what's wrong?" His voice softens and fills with worry. "You sound like you're crying. What happened?"

She could still tell him that she's fine, that something unexpected happened but that she'll be there hopefully tomorrow.

"I can't do this," she says.

"Can't do what?"

"I can't move to D.C. with you." She needs to breathe, she needs to take a breath. "I can't. I have to stay here."

"What do you mean?" He only sounds confused, not angry. "Are they telling you that you can't transfer?"

"No, I just...can't do this, Marcus. I can't be with you." She can't make her voice go above a whisper. "It isn't anything you did. This just won't work. It can't."

There's a short pause.

"Teresa, I don't know what's made you this upset, but I'm sure we can work everything out once you get here. You don't need to—"

"Please listen to me. I'm staying here."

Five seconds of silence.

"Why?"

"I don't know." The words come out garbled and she has to clear her throat. "I don't know. I just can't do this. Moving across the country with someone I only met a few months ago, even someone like you…I can't. And marriage and settling down somewhere…I want that to be what I want right now, but it's not. And you deserve somebody who wants that as much as you do."

Another silence.

"So we can't work this out," he finally says.

"No. I'm sorry." She tries to swallow another sob but can't. "Why aren't you getting mad?"

"I am mad." His voice is drained and distant. "And I don't think you're telling me everything. But I don't really want to yell at you, not when you're already crying."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I wanted this to work, but—"

"But you don't think it's going to. Okay. I don't understand, but okay. I just wish you hadn't…" he trails off, tone growing even colder. "I hope you find a way to be happy, Teresa. But I think if we keep talking I'm going to…I think I need to just hang up now."

"Okay."

There's a quiet click and the call ends.

* * *

><p>She waits for twenty minutes before making the next call, until she's sure her voice is going to be clear enough to understand. It only rings once.<p>

"Where are you?" Abbott asks as a greeting.

"At the airport." Steady, she has to keep her voice steady and even and not at all terrified. "I'm going to Austin. I need you to cancel the transfer paperwork. Please."

"That should be easy enough," he says. "Does Jane know about this?"

"No. Could you not tell him?"

"You don't want him to know?"

"No," she says. "But don't worry about him doing anything crazy. He won't. I think."

* * *

><p>On the flight back to Austin she flips through an issue of <em>Skymall<em>, forcing herself to read through descriptions of inflatable pool chairs and automated water dispensers for cats. After twenty pages she starts to hear Jane's voice in her head, making silly comments about all the products. She switches to reading everything backwards, but it's too late.

What the hell was she doing with Marcus?

She's known for a long time now that she's in love with Jane, that no amount of distance or anger has been able to erase it, that every time she's tried to fabricate romantic feelings for someone new, it's failed miserably. She knows that the right thing to do would've been to turn down the D.C. offer as soon as Marcus made it. He might have been a bit disappointed, but she wouldn't have had this guilt hanging over her head like she does now. She wouldn't have had the quiet shame of staying in Austin after telling everyone she was leaving. (Not that she cares much about the FBI rumor mill, but having the rest of the team think she's flighty and indecisive sounds very unappealing.)

She was supposed to be the responsible one. She's been the responsible one since the day her mother died, and what she's done now doesn't make any sense.

But she can't blame Jane for it. Even when she's broken the law at his request, it's been to stop murderers and defend innocent people. She's never been quite this reckless before in her personal life—even breaking off the engagement with Greg years ago doesn't seem anywhere near as cruel as what she's just done to Marcus. She should have known bet—

"Ma'am?" It's a flight attendant, in the aisle next to her with a drink cart. "What beverage do you want?"

She could get something alcoholic and try to drown out this guilt, drown out Jane's voice and the memory of their most recent conversation, drown out how badly she wishes he were sitting next to her and holding her hand.

"Just water, thanks."

* * *

><p>She's almost home when she remembers that the refrigerator is empty, but she stops at a convenience store instead of the supermarket. The lighting gives everything a sickly yellow tint and the man behind the counter doesn't even glance at her while ringing up milk and a box of cereal.<p>

The house has an abandoned feeling to it, though she hasn't been gone very long at all. After putting away the convenience store purchases, she uses her keys to cut open all the boxes stacked in the kitchen, haphazardly removing books and plates and a few photographs, setting everything on the floor. Her fingers fumble over a glass figurine and a piece chips off as it hits the ground.

She rubs at her eyes and stands, dizzy, pausing a moment before walking out of the room. The lighting on the basement stairs is dim, but she makes her way to the laundry room and opens the washing machine.

A small box, untouched. She was going to leave it here. She was going to leave the goddamn letters here and hope that someone else inadvertently destroyed them so she wouldn't have to do it herself, on purpose. She was going to force herself to forget, whatever it took.

She takes the box out but sets it on the shelf where the detergent should be. She won't read them again, not now. They don't prove anything.


	2. II

A/N: Vega is adorable, but I miss Fischer (and all of her awkward conversations with Lisbon throughout Season 6). So her leaving isn't going to be something that happens in this fic.

Thank you for the reviews. Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>She comes into work the next day, even though the rest of the team is still flying back from Miami and won't be there. Somehow there's still paperwork to do (from the fake, but, according to an email from Abbott, not actually fake case) and afterwards she busies herself by reading over Supreme Court briefs on legal and illegal searches. A few agents from other departments pass through the room without noticing her. It feels like one of the many quiet days at the police station in Canon River, but she won't let herself forget where she is.<p>

Around midafternoon she's just returned to her desk with a cup of coffee when Fischer walks in and sees her.

"I thought you'd left for D.C."

"No, I didn't. I'm staying here."

"Did Jane ask you to—?" Fischer stops abruptly. "Sorry. Not my business."

"It's fine," she says. "Is everybody else coming in today?"

"No, just me. I had work to catch up on."

"Yeah, me too."

"Is that a Supreme Court brief?"

"Ciraolo versus California."

A nod. "That reminds me—since you're here, you can look this over." Fischer brings over a gray file folder stuffed with papers. "Internal Affairs is…understaffed, so they have a new system where every department looks over some of the closed cases from other departments. Cho and I have been handling what they've given us so far, but I think it would be good for you to start too."

"Sure." She takes the folder. "So other departments look at our cases, then?"

Fischer gives a slight smile. "I try not to think about it. The case you're holding right now is our digital piracy task force though, and they're by-the-book. But let me know if you find anything beyond typos."

"Right. Okay."

"Oh, and…you've been doing good work here, Lisbon. I'm glad you decided to stay."

* * *

><p>She spends the second night back buying actual groceries and returning everything to working order, breaking only a ceramic mug in the process. Her hands falter again while she's setting the detergent back on its shelf in the basement, but she decides it's only because the bottle is heavy and she hasn't gotten much sleep lately.<p>

Jane has to know that she's stayed. He must have figured it out from Abbott by now. She keeps expecting a knock at the door, but it never happens.

She doesn't get a drunken rant from Marcus on her voicemail either, though that's not really a surprise. She was dating possibly the most considerate man on the planet, she realizes, and she almost married him.

But she never would have loved him, and she never would have belonged in that house in D.C.—she's at least completely sure of that.

* * *

><p>She's making coffee in the break room the next morning when she hears someone else walk in. After a moment of waiting for them to speak, she turns around to see Cho regarding her with an almost blank expression (she thinks she can see the tiniest bit of surprise and confusion, but can't really be sure).<p>

"Good choice," he finally says, without inflection.

She isn't sure whether to laugh at that or start crying, so she just nods.

"Is that coffee?" he asks.

"Oh. Yeah." She remembers what she's been doing. "It'll be ready soon. There should be a lot."

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>She stands near Cho behind the rows of chairs as Abbott and Fischer start the briefing. It's a possible-drug-trafficking-disguised-as-legitimate-business-turned-murder case, and she tries to focus on the details instead of on Jane. He's off to the side and she can't see his face to tell whether he's looking at the screen or staring at nothing. She can see that he isn't holding any tea, though.<p>

She realizes that he still doesn't know she's stayed.

"Cho and Fischer, head to the crime scene. It's been secured by the local police department, but it's a bad neighborhood and they've been seeing a few suspicious people nearby. Have Wylie show you a few satellite photos of the area first, in case anything happens," Abbott says. "Jane and Lisbon, talk to the victim's family. See who else is involved."

She watches Jane shudder almost imperceptibly, but then turns her head away so she won't see his expression when he looks at her. He must really not have known, she decides. Somehow she's done something he didn't expect.

She gets what she needs from her desk and heads to the elevator, knowing he's following her but managing to keep him out of her line of sight. She waits to look at him until after she's pressed the lobby button and the doors have closed.

It's a mistake. Her heart jolts and the sudden acceleration of the elevator almost knocks her from her feet. She's sure there must be panic on her face, but she can't figure out how to hide it.

"You're staying?" His voice is quiet and hollow, and he's looking at her without really looking at her.

"I'm staying," she tells him.

"Why?"

It's what Marcus said, in the exact same tone. She backs up as far away as she can in the small space.

"Two weeks," she says. "Ask me in two weeks. I need time to...I can't just…I—"

"Okay," he interrupts, offering a shaken version of the fake smile she's seen maybe a thousand times before. "It's okay, Lisbon."

She wants him to call her Teresa again. She wants to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around him and tell him she's loved him for years, but she can't. It won't work.

She doesn't belong here either.

* * *

><p>That night she goes out around eleven for what's supposed to be a jog, but instead becomes a full-out sprint past half-darkened houses. She ends up in a neighborhood she doesn't recognize with the same metallic taste in her mouth she used to get after track meets in high school. She's chased plenty of suspects over the years, but it's been a long time since she just ran until she couldn't anymore.<p>

At the end of the block is a larger building that looks more commercial than residential, so after catching her breath she walks over to take a look. Above the glass double doors at the front are metal letters reading 'Community Center', and she peers inside to see a lobby-like area illuminated only slightly by emergency lighting. The building is locked, but in the windows are taped assorted flyers. She glances over _Al-Anon meetings on Wednesdays at 7:30 _and _Join our Youth Basketball League _before coming to _Volunteers needed Tuesdays at 8:00 to coordinate food drives._

She started doing volunteer work in Canon River about a month after moving there—two weeks after realizing her job was going to take up much less of her time than before, one week after getting a letter with no return address, two days after hitting a dead end trying to trace it back to where it was written. Volunteer work was always a distraction. She isn't supposed to miss a distraction, just like she isn't supposed to miss Canon River or anything that came before. She was supposed to be able to pack up everything and move to D.C. and get married and stop feeling this out of control. She was supposed to be able to start over again, from scratch this time—no letters and no reminders. Nothing.

It takes her an hour to find her way back to her house. She puts a note on the fridge—_Tuesdays, 8 PM, Community Center._

* * *

><p>At eight the next morning she gets a coffee from the break room and sits at her desk, rereading the current case file so she won't glance over at Jane sitting on the couch nearby. Fischer walks in five minutes later with a stack of papers and an annoyed expression.<p>

"Our case?" Cho asks.

"Budget reports for our case," Fischer explains. "The warrant finally went through, but they sent us everything out of order to make things more difficult."

She waits for Jane to make some sort of comment, but he's silent.

"So we need to go through all of them?" she asks.

"Yes," Fischer answers. "We also need to look at their other warehouse in Laredo. You and Jane drive down there and Cho and I will stay—"

"I can read the reports," she interrupts. "Cho and I can stay here."

A pause and the flicker of confusion. "Alright. I'll…go with Jane, then. Call us when you find any discrepancies."

She won't look at Jane, she won't see his face. "Okay."

* * *

><p>She's scanning the budget report for fourth quarter of three years ago when Cho breaks the silence.<p>

"Why'd you stay?"

She looks up at him, but he's focused on another stack of papers.

"I thought you said 'good choice'?" she finally responds.

"Yeah. This is a good team. You're good here," he explains. "But why'd you stay?"

"I…" She isn't sure what's going on. "You don't know about…?"

He finally looks up. "About what?"

"Never mind." She shakes her head. "It's not important."

* * *

><p>She stays late one night the next week, filling out an inordinate amount of paperwork to explain how a suspect fell six feet into a literal pit of snakes (though it's surprisingly not Jane's fault this time). Partway through a form, she realizes someone's standing in front of her desk.<p>

"Thank you," Fischer says.

"For what?"

"Since you decided to stay, everything Jane has asked us to do has been completely legal. Unconventional, I think, but legal."

"That isn't because of…" She rethinks. "I didn't ask him to do that."

"You're still angry with him."

"I—"

"Sorry," Fischer interrupts. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine." She looks at the gray folder in the agent's hands. "Is that another file from Internal Affairs?"

"Yes. Though it's art department, from four months ago. I would understand if you didn't—"

"I'll do it. It isn't a problem." It's definitely a problem.

"If you're sure, then." Fischer hands her the file and then gives her a strained smile. "I'm sorry, I've been trying to be professional about this, but I thought that…sorry. Never mind. Abbott asked me to let you know that you're important to this team. We were relieved to have you stay, and not just to…keep Jane under control. You're a good agent."

"Thanks, but I'm just—"

"But you're unhappy here, and I have to ask…why did you stay?"

She swallows. "It just didn't make sense to leave, I guess."

"Everyone thought—well, I'm sure you know. But both of you seem…sorry. This really isn't my business." Fischer takes a breath. "We're happy to have you here and we want you to feel welcome, and we hope that…_I_ hope that you don't regret your decision."

"No, I…" How the hell is she supposed to respond? "I don't. Regret it, I mean."

"Good. I'm happy to hear that."

* * *

><p>She waits until after Fischer leaves to open the file. It's pages upon pages of notes, art-department-specific forms she doesn't recognize, washed out photographs of paintings and perps. Her hands clench into fists when she first notices Marcus's handwriting, sees his name and ID number at the top of a page.<p>

A good amount of the file is his writing, it turns out. Flipping through the documents, she eventually finds a section written entirely by the team's senior agent, David Kasanov. It seems illogical to start there though—in the middle rather than in the beginning—and she's going to have to deal with all of it at some point, so she might as well read everything in its intended order.

Tonight she shuts the file without going over a single page, sliding it to the edge of her desk before leaving for home.

* * *

><p>Two nights later they've just gotten back from Dallas, and she can hear everyone else talking in the break room, hear Wylie ordering case-closed pizza ("Does anyone want mushrooms? Mushrooms? No, okay, what about banana peppers?"). She finishes up a last form before turning to see Jane sitting on his couch and staring into space.<p>

"It's been…" she starts.

He returns her gaze and nods. "It has."

"Not here," she says. "Let's go somewhere else."


	3. III

A/N: Thank you all very much for the reviews.

Warning: major spoilers for 4x10, if you haven't seen it. Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>Neither of them speak during the elevator ride or the walk through the lobby and out into the parking lot. She won't invite him to her house (to avoid memories of the cannoli incident), but she doesn't want to feel trapped inside the Airstream either.<p>

He doesn't protest when she leads them a few streets over to a small stone fountain in between brick buildings, still illuminated by streetlights. She sits a bit away from him on one of the benches, so that their fingers won't accidently brush.

There's nowhere to even begin.

"I'm sorry, Lisbon," he says eventually. "For…tricking you to keep you from leaving."

She stares at a tarnished penny someone's dropped on the sidewalk a few feet away. "I'm not mad about that."

"Why not?"

She wonders if he's actually having trouble reading her, or if he only wants her to think that.

"I did the same thing to you," she tells him.

She looks back to catch his expression—a quiet confusion that turns so sharply to recognition that she hears his breathing falter for a second.

"That wasn't the same thing," he says.

"It was a lot worse." And she hasn't stopped thinking about it for the last two weeks, hasn't stopped remembering the look on his face and the way she said 'I'm sorry,' as though it made up for what she'd done.

His eyes soften. "I was never angry at you for that. If you hadn't stopped me from leaving, I…"

"You'd have run away, and maybe you wouldn't ever have remembered anything." She swallows. "But I got you to take a drive with me and I made you look at that room in your old house and I basically killed them again to keep you from—"

"Don't say that," he snaps. Then, softer, "Please don't say that, Lisbon."

"I didn't give you any choice," she continues. "You're a selfish son-of-a-bitch and you could've found a way to force me to stay here, but you let me choose."

"Because I want you to be happy. Because I love you." He pauses a moment. "But you don't want me to say that, because you still don't believe that I mean it."

Why can't she ever keep her face blank? "How am I supposed to believe you when all you ever do is act like you don't care about me?"

Her voice breaks a little on the words and she's afraid of what's showing in her expression, but he looks away. A back door to the apartment building across the street creaks open, and a man tosses an empty beer can out into the sidewalk before returning inside. She watches it clatter and roll over the edge of the curb and into the road, and wonders if the man has any kids.

"You've been mad at me since I left the first time," Jane finally says. "When I was trying to catch…him. When I was trying to catch Red John."

"Because you could've told me what you were doing, and you didn't. You hurt everyone and left without explaining yourself and didn't talk to me or anyone else who wanted to help you for six months." She takes a breath. "But that's not it anymore—that's not why I'm mad."

"I know." His eyes are still absent, fixed on the street. "But after that, every time I thought you might trust me again—"

"You'd screw it up," she finishes. "You'd screw it up and I wanted to hate you, but you never let me do that either. That's how you use me, Jane. That's how you always used me—you lie to me until I'm about to give up on you, and then suddenly you're waiting at my hospital bed for me to wake up so you can tell me everything's okay. You want me to think you care about me, so I won't—"

"I _do _care about you."

"That's what I _thought,_" she starts. "That's what I thought when you kept sending me letters, but all you were really doing was making sure you could still use me if you ever came back. And that's exactly what you did. I'm here to wear stupid dresses and pretend to be your girlfriend and when it comes down to things that really matter, you still never tell me the plan. You never tell me anything."

"What do you want to know, Lisbon?" His voice is barely audible. "Tell me what you want to know."

"Was it worth it?"

"Coming back to the states—yes. Telling you that I love you—yes. Killing Red John—I think so." He takes a breath. "Going after him in the first place…I don't know. If I believed in an afterlife, I would say yes, but I don't."

She has to say it. "I meant using me, Jane. Was it worth it?"

"No. But that isn't the answer you want, and I don't think you want an answer to that at all, Lisbon." There's an edge in his voice. "I know that I've used you and that I've hurt you, but loving someone, being in love with someone…that isn't something that I would ever want to lie about, isn't something I ever _could _lie about—not with what happened to..."

He stops and stares straight at her and she can see he's almost crying, can see his hands shaking now on the edge of the bench. It isn't just that he's scared, she realizes—it's that she's scaring him.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm sorry."

He's silent for half a minute—still staring at her, taking audibly uneven breaths that slowly resolve into something calmer, though still not calm.

"I need to ask you something."

She breaks away from his gaze. "I just didn't want to go to D.C."

"I wasn't going to ask you why you stayed," he says. "Though thank you for telling me. I wanted to ask you—"

"Don't." She can't let him ask this and if he does she'll break, she'll break right now. "Don't, Jane."

"—if you think you can be happy here," he finishes.

She breathes again. "_Now _you care about that? After making me one of your demands?"

"I always cared about that, Lisbon. I just—"

"You're just selfish."

"Yes. I am. I am selfish. And now I'm trying not to be," he tells her. "I think that you like working for the FBI, and I think you choosing not to leave had nothing to do with me."

"I—"

"But I'm only here because of you, because I wanted—needed—to see you. And you asked me to leave you alone, to go away." He chokes on the last few words and pauses a moment. "What I'm trying to say—what I'm trying to ask you is…do you want me to leave?"

"_No_," she half-shouts. "No, you can't. Dammit, you can't run away again, you—" She stops and shudders with a sob and there are tears rolling down her face and when did she start crying? "You can't abandon me again and say it's for my own good, okay? You just _can't_."

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay, I won't."

He reaches out to touch her shoulder but she jerks away before he can, slipping off the bench and onto her feet as though she's going to run, as though she's not shaking too violently to even walk. After a moment, he rises and steps around to face her, keeping a few feet between them.

"You can't leave," she says again. "Neither of us can leave, okay?"

"Okay. I understand."

"But I can't talk to you any more right now." Her words are slurring and she knows it and she can't stop. "You have to go away right now, but tomorrow you have to still be here. You can't leave."

"I won't leave," he tells her. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lisbon. I promise I will."

She hears him walk away, quiet footsteps across the sidewalk and road finally disappearing between buildings and fading to silence. Taking their place is the sound of a slammed door and shouting from the apartment complex across the street, the beginnings of a fight floating out through an opened window.

* * *

><p>She dreams that she's lost in a crowd of passengers, drifting out of a grounded airplane and through a long hallway and down two escalators and into another mob of people all holding signs or shouting one another's names.<p>

She can't bring herself to search. She stands by a halted baggage carousel and counts how many times 'Reagan National Airport' appears painted on the walls or imprinted on passing luggage carts or rolling across screens after the words 'Welcome to'. Her funeral clothes are heavy in her carry-on bag (it's the shoes, she thinks). She went straight from the cemetery to the airport in Austin and changed into street clothes there, and the flight (the last one coming here today) left an hour later.

"Hey, there you are."

She looks up to see Marcus beaming at her. Kissing him is something that happens then, but not something she thinks about.

"Hey." Is that her voice? It has to be. "I checked a bag. I think carousel four."

"Okay, let's get that, then." His hand slips into hers (she doesn't think about that either) and he's drawing her back through the crowd. "And then do you want coffee or something? It must've been a long flight."

"Yeah. Sure." She needs to speak in sentences. "Coffee sounds good."

"The weather's been crazy here," he tells her. "Everyone I've asked says it's always like this, so I guess we'll get used to it, right?"

"I guess so."

He stops her in front of carousel four (nothing's arrived yet), and looks at her a moment. "How are you feeling? About…?"

She swallows. "I'm fine. I just came straight here from…"

"The funeral, I know," he says softly. "I haven't lost any…close friends on the job, but about a month after I started at the FBI someone on the team I was assigned to got killed in a similar situation, protecting another one of the agents."

If she'd been a little faster, if she hadn't let them get ambushed by a suspect, if she hadn't—

She told them he'd have wanted to be buried with his family and they said he hadn't left a will saying that. (But they listened when she told them he didn't believe in god or religion. They listened to that, at least.)

"It's okay if you don't feel comfortable talking to me about what happened," Marcus continues. "But if you do, I'm here. Okay?"

She nods. "Okay."

He kisses her again but she isn't really here—and she isn't in Austin or Canon River or Sacramento or Chicago either, and she isn't anywhere at all.

* * *

><p>She wakes with a start to see it's four-thirteen and still black as ink outside, save the streetlights. She's in Austin, in her house, in her bed—not at an airport. She didn't go to D.C. and she hurt Marcus (and Jane is still alive).<p>

And she wouldn't have gone to D.C. even if he'd been killed.

She knows it somehow. She knows that no matter what, she would've realized she was making the wrong decision. She would've figured out that leaving didn't make sense (even if staying didn't make sense either). She would've figured it out sometime before it was too late to change her mind. She's sure of it.

It's a strange thing to be sure of. (And so is being in love with Jane, she supposes.)

* * *

><p>After showering and finding something to wear, she makes coffee and forces herself to eat half a bowl of cereal before driving into work on streets with only three or four other cars.<p>

The lights are still out on her floor when she gets there, and she doesn't find Jane asleep on the couch after turning them on. She sits at her desk and pulls the gray folder with the art squad case out from under another stack of papers, opening it to its first document.

She doesn't stop reading until she's finished the file.

* * *

><p>At around eight she's checking email when someone sets a coffee on her desk, and she looks up to see Jane.<p>

"Thanks." Her voice comes out as a whisper.

"Of course."

"No," she says. "I mean for the other thing. Thank you."

He nods. "I promised."

* * *

><p>Two days later she knocks once on the door of Abbott's office before pushing it open, and watches him scramble to put something back in a desk drawer. (It's that action figure Jane got him, she's sure of it.)<p>

"Lisbon," he greets. "This is about the Sanchez murder, I assume."

"No, it's not." She holds up a gray file folder. "It's this file from Internal Affairs—an old art squad case on Victor Morgan. I keep going over these notes from an Agent Kasanov, and something's off."

"Fischer assigned you to review a case from the art squad?" he asks.

"It wasn't a problem," she says quickly. "When I asked her about this, she told me to let you know so you could tell Internal Affairs."

"I see."

She sets the file on Abbott's desk. "I know it isn't hard evidence, but there are places where it feels like there isn't as much detail as there should be—like information is being left out on purpose. It's only in Agent Kasanov's forms."

"I'll take a look," he tells her. "If I agree, I'll let Internal Affairs know."

"Thanks, boss." She starts toward the door.

"Wait a moment."

She turns to look at him again.

"You're clearly unhappy here," he says. "But you did change your mind about transferring."

"I'm fine," she assures him. "I'm okay."

"I've seen a lot of agents like you," he begins, "who've grown accustomed to taking all of the responsibility and all of the blame."

"I'm really—"

"What I'm saying to you," he interrupts, "is that you shouldn't punish yourself forever. You're a good agent, but you won't get very much farther in this job or in your life if you don't forgive yourself for mistakes."

She stares at him. "I—"

"The Sanchez case, Lisbon. Get back to work."

She nods and stands straight again. "Right. Got it."


	4. IV

A/N: Thank you for the reviews. Delay caused by bizarre computer issues and my resuming college.

This chapter is a bit different in terms of length/structure. Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>She falls into a routine of getting to work too early and staying too late over the next week, since the two cases they get are close by. The dream about D.C. doesn't come back again, but in its place are disjointed nightmares about her childhood in Chicago—she wakes up swearing she can smell whiskey, looking for bruises on her skin. She calls Tommy once to make sure he and Annie are doing alright, but doesn't give any details about her own life.<p>

She responds to a three-week-old email from Van Pelt asking how D.C. is in two sentences—_There was a change of plans and I'm staying in Austin. But thanks for asking. _When she gets an email back and a few days later a message from Rigsby too, she doesn't open either of them. When they call her she lets the phone ring and doesn't check her voicemail.

In the mornings Jane finds her at her desk and brings her coffee. She always says thank you and he always tells her in a half-distant voice that she shouldn't drink so much caffeine. She tries laughing at that once, but can't make it very convincing.

In the evenings she writes reports and fills out paperwork until there's really nothing left to possibly do. Jane sits on the couch nearby and reads paperbacks while she's working, staying so quiet that she can almost forget he's there at all. He always says goodnight to her when she leaves, but stays sitting on the couch. (Unlocking her car in the parking lot one night she glances back at the front of the building to see him leaving, and decides he only stays to make sure she goes home at a reasonable time.)

Other than the pleasantries and to exchange information on cases, they don't speak to each other. She realizes halfway through the week that she never did answer his question—_do you think you can be happy here? _She called him selfish, she told him not to run away, she said she couldn't talk to him anymore that night. But she never answered.

It's past nine one evening when he sets a menu for a nearby Chinese restaurant down on her desk, covering up the paper she's writing on.

"I'm fine, Jane," she tells him. "I'll go home soon."

"And eat cereal again, I imagine." He's missing the grin she expects to see on that line.

"I'm just finishing this. You don't have to—"

He pulls the form she's been working on out from under the menu. "You can finish this once you pick something to eat, Lisbon."

She narrows her eyes. "You're not just going to order for me?"

"No," he says. "And if you don't want Chinese, there are other places that deliver. But you do need to eat something."

"Fine."

* * *

><p>She stands near the counter in the break room with the carton of lo mein while Jane makes tea. When he sets a mug in front of her she takes it, realizing how cold her fingers are.<p>

"You're not eating," he says.

"I'm not that hungry," she lies. "You didn't have to do this."

"No." His voice hasn't lost its edge. "I did."

She could walk away right now, leave the tea and Chinese food on the counter and collect her things, take the stairs down to the lobby so she won't have to wait for the elevator.

She's so sick of running.

"We need to talk, Jane."

"I know," he says. "About what I said in Miami."

She thinks she should find it liberating that he can't read her mind anymore, but she doesn't.

"No," she tells him. "About what happened with the human trafficking case."

He's silent for half a minute, but she decides he's thinking and not trying to avoid the subject. She twirls the fork in the lo mein absently and doesn't eat any of it.

"That case was why you decided to leave," he finally says.

She nods. "Because—"

"You already didn't trust me," he finishes. "And I made it so that you couldn't trust yourself, either."

"You didn't force me to do anything." She swallows. "You never do. But I've been in so many of your cons that I can't tell what the right thing to do is anymore. We saved those girls, but what if we could've done it by-the-book, and we didn't realize it?"

"Do you—?"

"I used uphold the law, Jane. That was what I swore to do, and I caught criminals doing that. Now you decide someone's guilty, and I go along with it and don't even think if there's a way to catch them without breaking any laws." She takes a breath. "I helped you murder someone. I helped you kill McAllister, and just by moving here I helped you stay out of jail. I—"

"You think that I should be in prison?" he interrupts. "You wanted me to be?"

"I _wanted _you to find a way to kill him in self-defense," she snaps. "All those years I kept telling you that when we found Red John, we were going to bring him in and give him a trial—and by the time we found him, you'd twisted everything up so much that I _wanted _you to kill him, and to not have to be on the run afterwards."

"You always knew I was going to kill him, Lisbon. I _always_ made that clear."

"But I was supposed to stop you. I was supposed to convince you not to kill him, not let you make me think it was okay." She has to keep her voice from shaking. "What you did in Miami was nothing. The worst con you ever ran on me happened years ago."

His eyes narrow. "Then why did you agree to work with me again?"

She's finally going to say it.

"Because I don't know who the _hell_ I am anymore," she chokes. "I used to be someone, I used to make decisions and know what I thought about things, and then somewhere along the line I wasn't someone anymore. Somewhere along the line I stopped existing without you."

"I—"

"And I thought I could remember who I was in Washington, thought if I was away from everywhere you'd been then I'd be a person again. But I didn't remember." She's crying again. Crying again, _dammit_. "You erased everything about me so you could invent someone who could help you get your revenge, and then you erased all that trying to invent someone who could make you happy, who could make you feel like all of this wasn't just pointless, and—"

Something hits the ground and shatters. Ceramic. She thinks Jane's dropped a teacup onto the floor. She thinks she's gone too far.

"Do you really think that I could have done that?" he asks, voice cracking. "Do you really think I set out to do something like that to you?"

"I don't know," she whispers. "I never know what you're doing. I never know what the hell you're doing."

"But you remember…" He pauses and she can see him trying to calm down and she really did go too far. "You remember what I was like at the beginning, Lisbon. When you met me. You remember that, right?"

She nods, fingers gripping the counter in front of her.

"I was a shell—almost everything about me was gone, and you…" He takes a breath. "Right from the start, you were trying to make me into a person again. I always thought that he…that Red John determined who I became after I lost them, but it was you. It was always you."

"I didn't—"

"You said that you stopped existing without me, but I…the me that you know, that you've always known…can't exist without you. I wasn't writing you those letters so that I could keep using you. I was writing them to keep existing."

"But you _remember _who you were before. You remember, and I don't." She's sobbing so hard she thinks he won't understand, but she has to keep going, she has to. "You could go back to who you were before, and—"

"No, I can't," he says. "I can't, not with all of my memories still intact. And I wouldn't want to, even if I could. I wouldn't want to, Lisbon. I love you, and—"

"_Stop. _You can't…please stop, Jane." She's going to say too much. "You know how I feel about you, and you think that if you keep saying what you're saying then eventually I'm going to—"

"That isn't what I'm doing. This isn't a scheme because I don't know how you feel about me—not now, at least—and I still…don't understand why you didn't leave. If either of us can start over, it's you." His voice turns to a whisper. "I want you to be happy, I want that more than anything, and all I've done the past few months is make you cry every time we have a conversation. You aren't happy here at all, and I think that maybe…I should have let you leave. I should never have tried to stop you."

She's not going to tell him how she feels. She's not going to move from the spot where she's standing, even though he looks so lost it's unbearable.

"You didn't stop me from leaving, Jane. It was something I _chose, _it was the first thing I really chose in forever, because—" She has to be strong, she has to be strong about this. "I was trying to con him. I was just using Marcus to try to get away from you, to try to get away from who I am around you, who I…"

And she can't finish and—

"Lisbon?"

His voice is panicked, she thinks, and he's moving around the counter toward her. She's sitting on the floor and isn't sure how it happened.

"Drink this." He's handing her the mug of tea. "I think it might be cold now, but you should still…and you need to eat something, you really do."

She chokes a little on the tea but drinks a few sips—it isn't cold yet, but it isn't warm either. Jane sits across from her on the floor and hands her the lo mein and a fork once she puts down the mug. She eats half of the carton in silence. It doesn't taste like anything.

She looks up again to see that he's crying and giving her a broken smile at the same time, and she wishes he were closer to her and holding her hand. She wishes she could forget this conversation, forget everything that's happened since she moved to Austin, forget that she's forgotten who she is.

"How are we supposed to fix this?" Her voice sounds like she's swallowed ash. "How the hell do we fix this, Jane?"

"I wish I knew the answer to that." His eyes close for a few seconds and then open again. "I kept thinking that I could show you how much I care about you, that I could do something to make you forgive me. But I—"

"I know you're trying," she interrupts. "But it's not just about me forgiving you. Even if you quit treating me like your sidekick, I have to…quit acting like your sidekick. I can't keep doing things like what we did in the trafficking case. And I can't keep doing things like what I did to Marcus."

"Okay. I understand that, Lisbon," he says. "But right now you're…torturing yourself. You're barely eating and you're working almost nonstop and I can tell that you haven't been sleeping at all."

"I'm—"

"And I can tell you that it isn't going to help. Torturing yourself isn't going to change anything about the past or make up for anything you think you've done—and you have to trust me on that, because I spent years…" he doesn't finish. "I still haven't forgiven myself for what happened to my family, and I don't think that I ever will. I've…tortured myself about it. I still do. But it doesn't help them, not at all."

She stares at him. "You're giving me _advice_?"

"I am giving you advice, and I know that you won't take it, but I'm giving you advice anyway," he tells her. "I told you before that I want you to be safe and I want you to be happy, and right now you're not either of those. You're putting yourself in danger, and I need to convince you not to."

"I'm not—"

"I need to tell you that if you think that you've become a bad person, you're wrong," he interrupts. "You've helped hundreds—probably thousands—of people over the years. And you've saved my life more times than I can count, even if you don't think that that's worth anything."

"Jane…" She really wishes he were closer.

"I've seen you hide yourself in work before, I've seen you angry with yourself before—but never this much," he continues. "And it makes me think that you're feeling guilty about something else, too—beyond our recent cases and beyond you deciding not to leave."

There's no way in hell she's telling him about the dreams. "Don't. Just…leave it, okay?"

"I won't ask you to talk about it, Lisbon," he says. "But I will say that…I know you blame yourself for things that happened when you were younger, things that were never your fault. I hope that someday you can realize that you're not to blame."

"You don't know…" She rubs at her eyes. "You can't say—"

"And I take responsibility for what happened on the human trafficking case," he tells her. "I don't think I should promise never to ask you to do anything illegal again, because I'm not sure I can keep that promise, but I will try. I am trying."

She swallows the memory of her dreams and she won't think of them again. "I know. I noticed that. I noticed you're trying."

"And I know…" He pauses. "I know you won't appreciate me saying this, but I think that Marcus Pike made an unreasonable request of you. I don't think he should have expected anything to go differently than it did, and if he said anything to you—"

"He didn't," she interrupts. "So don't try anything, okay?"

"I won't, I won't," Jane assures her. "But I won't wish anything pleasant upon him either. Or anyone else who asks you to move halfway across the country with them."

"You made me move from Washington to Texas," she says. "That's halfway across the country."

The trace of a grin. "Yes, but I saved you from the boredom of a small town."

She can't remember the last time he's teased her like this—months, maybe.

"We were friends, right?" It's a silly question, but she can't keep herself from asking anyway. "Me and you were friends?"

"We were," he tells her. "Very good friends, I would say."

"I miss…how it was sometimes." She looks away. "You remember when you made Van Pelt and Rigsby go on that radio show?"

"Mm, I remember you trying to stop us from listening to the broadcast, even though it was definitely case-related."

"It was _not._"

He half-smiles. "But it turned out well for the two of them, in the end."

"Yeah, it did. I didn't think it would, but it did," she says. "And I really like Fischer and Wiley, and I like how the FBI has name recognition and isn't always running out of money, but I…"

"But you miss the CBI," he finishes.

"Even though I always had to deal with all your paperwork. And apologize to a lot of important people for all the stunts you pulled."

"You miss the familiarity," he says. "I do too. And there were good things that happened there. I remember you smiling, on occasion."

She swallows. "But even if we were friends, Jane, we were still…using each other. You were using me to catch Red John and I was using you as…" She can't think of the word. "If I had to deal with all the messes you were making all the time, I didn't have to think about a relationship or friends or figure out what I wanted for my life."

"I—"

"And you have to let me figure that out," she says. "You have to let me figure out how to be who I want to be, and not just your sidekick."

"You were never—"

"And you have to be someone too," she interrupts. "You have to still exist without me. We can't be using each other anymore, Jane. If we keep doing things like what you did in Miami or what I did when you lost your memory, just to stop each other from leaving, then we'll both end up…"

'Dead' is the first word she thinks of. She's sure from the look on his face that he does too.

"I understand that," he says after a moment. "But I have to tell you that I'm not going to be able to change how I feel about you. And it seems like you deciding not to leave…really had nothing to do with what I said—"

"Stop." She needs him closer _now_. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You have to quit saying things like that. We have to be able to talk to each other without crying. We have to figure out how to work with each other without using each other."

He's silent a few seconds. "You want to…start over."

"_No_," she snaps. "No because I can't and you can't and—"

"You want us to go back to how we used to be," he starts. "But without me hurting you, and without you needing to use me as a distraction."

She nods.

"And you're afraid that I'm trying to protect you because I'm desperate and not because I care about you," he continues. "And you're wrong about that. But if you think we need to repair this, if you think we need to be friends again but not while using each other, then you're right. You're right and I will do anything to make that work."

"Okay." Her hands are in fists so she won't reach for him.

He gives her a strained smile. "But you look like you haven't gotten any sleep in days, and I think you should go home now."

He stands again and she follows suit quickly, picking up the mug and the carton of lo mein and setting them back on the counter. He's a few feet away from her but still too close, and she knows he won't try to hug her (she's scared him away from that), but she's still wishing he would.

She remembers. "The broken—"

"I'll get it," he interrupts.

"I made you break it."

"No, you didn't," he tells her. "I'm glad…you said what you did. And you really should go home now, just…"

"Just what?" she asks when he doesn't finish.

"I hope you realize that you're not just important to me—you're important _period_," he starts. "And I hope you realize that you don't need to suffer this much, that you don't need to suffer at all."

"Jane—"

"And I hope that…that you _want _to be happy. That you realize you deserve that."

She loves him too much and it's difficult to breathe. "I should go—"

"Right. Right, you should," he says. "Goodnight, Lisbon. Drive safely."

"See you tomorrow." It's a half-whisper and she's floating toward the doorway.

"See you."

She can hear the sound of ceramic shards being swept up as she gets her things from her desk. In the elevator she shuts her eyes, but it's too quiet and too steady to pretend she's still at the CBI.


	5. V

A/N: Slightly happier-feeling chapter to counteract some of our terror/impending sadness over the death tonight. (I think we all have the same sense of who it's going to be.)

Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter (and also thank you to everyone who reviewed Stay; it was appreciated).

Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>She wakes up to a grating alarm the next morning, and it takes her about twenty seconds to realize it's the one she always sets for seven-thirty. She hasn't heard it in a week. The water in the shower is cold and she can't remember if she had any dreams.<p>

After getting dressed she goes down to the basement, opening the door to the laundry room and flicking on the light to see a bottle of detergent and a box of letters.

"_I was writing them to keep existing," _he said.

She thinks maybe that still counts as using her, even if he didn't and doesn't realize it.

She takes the box back upstairs and sets it in one of the empty kitchen cabinets, where she's supposed to be keeping all the extra cooking implements she still doesn't own. The glass figurine she broke while unpacking is sitting on the counter, and she picks it up and puts it next to the letters before closing the cabinet door.

She kept everything from her mother hidden in a shoebox in the back of a closet until she left for college. She didn't start wearing the cross necklace until a few years after that, though she can't remember why not. All her memories from back then feel like she's stolen them from someone else.

In the car she eats half a stale granola bar and flips through radio stations in the area until she finds one for jazz. It takes less than a minute, and she wonders why she never looked before.

* * *

><p>An hour later she's heading toward a crime scene thirty minutes out of town, riding in an FBI vehicle with Cho driving. They've been silent for three miles on the highway before he speaks in an even voice—quick, but not rushed.<p>

"Did Jane threaten you?"

She turns her head to see the usual almost blank expression. "What?"

"You stayed here after he said something to you," Cho explains.

Of course that's what it looks like, she realizes. Of course to him it looks like Jane threatened her with something from her past, or threatened to—

"He didn't threaten me," she says quickly.

"Then why'd you stay?"

How many times has she heard that question these past few weeks? How many times is she going to hear it?

"It's hard to explain," she tells him. "It's sort of a long story."

The car abruptly changes lanes and starts to slow down, pulling into an off-road parking lot full of tourists taking pictures of the scenery. She reads anger in Cho's face but isn't sure it's directed at her.

"Why'd you stay?" he asks again after they've stopped.

Redirecting won't work, but she tries it anyway. "You think I should've left?"

"No," he says. "I'm just sick of watching Jane screw up your life."

His voice is low and even and matter-of-fact, and it takes her several seconds to realize he's actually said what she thinks she heard.

"That's not what's happening," she tells him, voice faltering a bit.

"Then what's happening?"

"I'm really fine, Cho. I'm okay."

"You look like hell and everyone's worried about you," he says. "Fischer keeps asking me if you've done this before. Abbott thinks you're trying to get yourself killed. Rigsby called me yesterday and said he and Van Pelt have been trying to talk to you for a week, but you won't answer your phone."

"I'm not trying to get myself killed," she tells him. "I'm fine. It's just complicated."

"They thought you stayed because there's a thing with you and Jane," Cho says. "Didn't see that coming. And it doesn't explain anything. So why'd you stay?"

"I don't know." She swallows. "I couldn't leave."

"Why not?"

She takes a breath. "You ever miss the CBI?"

"Yeah. Always," he says. "Why?"

"I don't know. I miss it," she tells him. "But they were always threatening to fire me."

"Because of Jane."

"Yeah," she says. "No one's trying to fire me anymore."

"You want them trying to fire you?"

"No, I don't. I…" What does she want? "People are really asking about me?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't they?"

She remembers standing in Hightower's office years ago and being told she was replaceable. That Jane wasn't, but she was.

"Can we keep driving?" she asks. "We're gonna be late."

"Yeah." Cho starts the car again and brings them back onto the highway. "But you should call Rigsby and Van Pelt. Or quit staying at work late. Or take a day off."

"Yeah, okay." Like hell she's taking a day off, and she's sure Cho knows it. "And you don't have to…be mad at Jane, okay?"

"Someone has to."

She knows what he means. "I'll handle it. It'll be better if everyone else isn't mad at him," she says. "But…"

"What?" he asks when she doesn't finish.

"Thanks. Thanks anyway, for this."

He just nods, eyes on the road.

* * *

><p>She wakes up to the alarm again the next morning and spends longer than the bare minimum of time looking in the mirror. Her skin is paler than she remembers and there are faint circles under her eyes like faded bruises or stains. (She thinks 'hell' is a bit of an exaggeration, though.)<p>

She does everything more slowly than normal, more purposefully—she won't be late, just not early like usual. In the kitchen she makes herself sit and eat an entire bowl of cereal and almost tastes it and thinks she might still be hungry.

She was always planning to learn to make French toast. She cooked most dinners for her and her brothers, but it was always simple things like spaghetti or grilled cheese or soup. Tommy was always asking for pancakes and she remembers buying off-brand pancake mix and fake maple syrup one time and making a mess of the kitchen. French toast was an impossibility.

She could get one of those recipe books and try to figure it out now. (She could ask Jane.) She could go back to that diner. (Never again.)

* * *

><p>Fischer gives her a smile when she walks into the office, and she returns it. The blinds on the windows are half pulled-up, so sunlight filters in and casts tiny shadows on her desk—the shapes of a computer and a stapler and a stack of files. She gets a coffee and wonders if she really is drinking too much caffeine (not that she's going to stop).<p>

There're those emails from Van Pelt and Rigsby still in her inbox, and she finally reads them to see that Cho's right—they are worried, both of them. She's looking the messages over a second time when she absently glances at the couch nearby to see Jane sitting there (he wasn't before, she's sure of it). He's holding an unbroken cup of tea and wearing that vest.

She looks away again so she won't stare.

* * *

><p>The next morning she waits for the coffee machine and watches him make tea in her peripheral vision. A vest again. She lets herself pretend she's still at the CBI for about thirty seconds, though the room's décor makes it near impossible.<p>

When the coffee's ready she gets out a mug from the cabinet and fills it, noticing two packets of artificial sweetener suddenly next to her on the counter.

"Thanks." Her voice is quiet.

She adds the sweetener (she's heard it's unhealthy, but so is getting shot at), and stirs. Jane doesn't say anything. She gets the milk out of the refrigerator and sets it on the counter next to him.

"Thank you, Lisbon."

They really could be at the CBI, if this building didn't look so goddamn futuristic. She glances over at him as he pours the milk, notices—

He isn't wearing the ring.

Her hands falter and she spills a few drops of coffee onto the floor, but he doesn't look up. She's sure this is something new, something that's started today—otherwise she would have noticed before. Even distracted by the reappearance of the vest, she would've noticed.

She walks back to her desk as quickly as possible (trying not to seem rushed), setting her coffee down halfway on top of a set of sticky notes and almost toppling it. When he passes by her desk a minute later, she's hiding in a file and doesn't let herself look up at the blank space on his hand.

She told him he had to be someone too, she _told_ him he had to and now he isn't, now he's _still_ trying to prove to her that he cares and now she's trying not shake, trying not to say anything. It shouldn't be this impossible to fix things between them—it shouldn't be but he's _making _it.

She goes out running again that evening.

* * *

><p>He's wearing the ring the next day.<p>

He doesn't do anything to call her attention to it, just like he didn't do anything to call her attention to its absence the day before, but she notices. She notices it during the briefing that morning when it catches the light and she notices how her hands clench into fists. She isn't sure what she's angry about.

They get sent to a crime scene an hour away, and she glances at him in the passenger's seat from time to time as she drives. Neither of them speak. On his face is the same distant expression he had for most of the day before, the one she remembers seeing again and again at the CBI. She doubts he's still thinking about Red John, but she keeps the radio off so it won't break his concentration.

She misses the way the forests covered everything in Washington, and she misses the rain and the mountains that looked like they were almost floating, and she misses the days she'd check her mailbox and find an envelope with no return address. It seems strange to miss the letters when Jane is there next to her, but she does.

She parks the car next to a couple of local police vehicles at the crime scene, but he doesn't move.

"Jane?" Her voice feels too loud after an hour of silence.

He turns to look at her abruptly, as though he's surprised that she's there. "Are we here?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

He nods after a moment, giving her a half-smile.

* * *

><p>The next day she figures out what he's doing. The ring is gone again and she knows it isn't for her, that he isn't trying to prove anything. She knows him well enough to be sure that if this was for her, he'd have taken it off and never put it back on. He'd have called her attention to it in some way—handing her something or tapping his fingers on a steering wheel or desk. He wouldn't be this lost in thought.<p>

And she knows he's doing this for himself, that he's trying to heal for his own sake now, and she catches herself smiling that day in the middle of a stack of paperwork. She makes him tea (probably the wrong way), though she's careful not to let their fingers touch when she hands it to him. He thanks her with another half-smile and it's all she can do not to say something.

* * *

><p>Maybe she needs to heal too.<p>

She's eating again now—trying to have cereal before work, trying not to skip lunch, trying to make something other than microwaved food in the evenings. (Not always succeeding.) She's leaving work at a more reasonable time, getting more than just a few hours of sleep every night. (The dreams still come and go.) She buys new batteries for the radio she got at a yard sale in Washington, and plays music on low volume so that the house never gets too quiet. (She doesn't dance.)

She stays for case-closed pizza one night so that she'll stop associating it with Marcus and the diner and guilt. Cho nods at her almost imperceptibly and Fischer gives her a quiet smile. She eats two slices of pizza and half-listens to Wylie's jumbled story about data encryption and katana-wielding samurais.

Jane stays near the edge of the room, the edge of the conversation—but he's at least partway here, she thinks. Their eyes meet once, and she remembers how he used to do that one mind-reading trick on her at the CBI, used to tell her to 'project' an image or a word to him. She's pretty sure '_I'm glad you're really trying to get better and you have to know by now that I love you more than anything' _is too many words to project. (And he hasn't been very good at reading her mind lately anyway.)

* * *

><p>The next morning she comes into work at eight to find Jane asleep on the couch and a coffee already on her desk. She drinks half of it while waiting for her computer to start and her email client to load. She could respond to the messages from Van Pelt and Rigsby right now—nothing too complicated, just that she's alright and hopes to see them again sometime soon.<p>

She types half a sentence before deciding she really should call them. She could do it tonight, maybe. Or since it's a Tuesday—if she isn't here too late, she could find the community center near her house again, see if they need her as a volunteer.

It's a nice thought. Normal, like what she thought about in Canon River (when she wasn't reading one of Jane's letters or agonizing over when the next one would arrive). She could—

"Lisbon."

She looks up to see Abbott in front of her desk, expression unreadable.

"My office," he says.


End file.
